


Home Field Advantage

by intentioncraft



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, selfcest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-14
Updated: 2014-03-14
Packaged: 2018-01-15 18:07:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1314199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intentioncraft/pseuds/intentioncraft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean wants things. The difficulty lies in getting him to admit it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home Field Advantage

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on [tumblr](http://thighholstered.tumblr.com/post/69419728778/s8-dean-2014-dean-for-deancest-december-theres) for Deancest December.

"Wait, so this is a secret underground hideout?"

Dean holds the word “yes” on his tongue for a beat, throat constricting around the sheer satisfaction that the affirmative answer will wipe the condescending smirk right off the douchebag’s face, “It’s more like a _home_ , really,” he supplies, with relish. The word has a visible effect on the man standing in the large open archway to the library; he crosses his arms over his chest and gazes out across the grand room with a strange expression on his face.

Not too strange, though. Dean still sees that exact same expression on his own face when he steps out of the shower, wipes the fog off the mirror with his hand, and realizes, as he plucks his toothbrush out of the goddamn toothbrush holder, that he has a _toothbrush holder_. Meaning, there came a point when he’d decided that it made more sense to store his toothbrush in a permanent place rather than in the little leather bag he’s been keeping his toiletries in for the past thirty-odd years.

"It’s okay. You can say it’s awesome," Dean says gently. It’s a big step for him. Actually, being thrown into an alternate universe and suddenly being forced to accept that things actually got better isn’t so much a big step as it is like trying to step across the Grand Canyon.

Dean — the other Dean — scoffs, “Yeah, sure. Like I’d want to live in a goddamn library.”

"There’s a shooting range, too," he replies. He steps up beside his double, sliding a wry sideways glance at him. It must be some metaphysical equilibrium thing, but the hand closest to the other man twitches and aches to move, to touch, like the universe recognizes that there are two people who should not exist in the same dimension standing around shooting the shit and it’s trying to fix the wrinkle in space-time through complete convergence.

"And you think this is it? This is your happy ending?" the other Dean shoots a frosty glare at him, a pang of pity rings through the one wearing a faded henley and black sweatpants instead of the dark green jacket of a military man and a fucking thigh holster. He doesn’t miss the disgust in his tone, but he knows that it’s not out of spite but of the utter disbelief that Dean managed to skew the timeline so dramatically that the war-torn world Zachariah air-dropped him into five years ago is nothing but a distant, fuzzy nightmare. They are two completely different men.

Except not exactly, because Dean the solider takes a few tentative steps forward and runs the tips of his fingers over the map table, taking in the pile of Kevin’s assorted research materials and the half-empty teacup sitting neatly on a saucer. He’s taking it all in, the warm buzz of electric lights, the colourful sticky notes all over the table denoting anything from alternate translation of Enochian symbols to grocery lists, the plates of old sandwich crusts and the long pair of socks hanging over the back of a chair, “Those Sam’s?” he asks, clearing his throat.

Dean nods, watching the expression on his double’s face take a truly painful plunge. He wonders how long it’s been since he’s seen Sam, just Sam. How long it’s been since he’s been able to gripe about Sam shedding his sweaty socks the second he felt relaxed enough to do so.

“He’s out on a library run with Kevin.”

“Kevin.”

“Yeah, he’s this kid. I think we kind of adopted him.”

Dean leans forward and places his fists knuckles down on the table, staring off into the middle distance and thinking God-knows-what about all of _this_ , about Sam and Kevin and the safety of four walls, of home and comfort. About a timeline thrown onto different rails and of being slapped in the face with all of these lost possibilities. It’s not that Dean’s life is perfect at the moment, but compared to the war-torn hell of the other2014, this has got to be a goddamn Elysium.

“Uh, drink?” Dean offers simply.

“Fuck, _please_.”

-

“It’s not your fault, you know,” the thought just bursts out of him like a hiccough, completely unasked for and so abrupt that he immediately feels embarrassed. Also, this probably really isn’t the best time to bring _that_ up, since he’s kind of straddling his naked double on his bed and had to stop mid-kiss to tell him.

“Don’t even start with that,” he replies, “you and I both know that’s bull.”

True. But Dean doesn’t want this entire experience to be tainted by guilt and loss and shame. There’s a large part of him — his body and his mind — that would just like to have sex with himself (again) with no strings attached, with none of the emotional luggage that prevents them both from being honest with each other. He’ll get there. They’ll both get there, he’s sure. With enough self-prevarication and heavy petting, Dean can ignore just about any unwanted truths and feelings and get himself off. He’s been doing it since he was seventeen, after all, using sex as a way to hold his head above the water and keep from being crushed under the weight of his mistakes and perpetual misery.

Then there’s another part of him that wants to untangle the cat’s cradle, wants to lay it out in simplest terms and find ways to take the outward comforts of his life and internalize them. Not just for himself, but for…his _other_ self, the one who will have to go back to a world where there are no memory foam mattresses or soft downy pillows. Purgatory — which he hasn’t told this other Dean about yet — inspired this in him, he thinks. This essential desire to simplify, to slough away the decay and debris and get to the core of the issue, even if the issue is himself.

Unfortunately, that’s just him. Dean pinned beneath him did not go through Purgatory. Sure, the other 2014 may not be that different in terms of survival and bloodshed and bone-deep exhaustion, but all this Dean knows is surviving long enough to do the job, to save the world like he’s been told to do. All this Dean knows is putting on the brave face so others feel they can rely on him, so they feel as though he’s doing a good job of protecting them. This Dean — the one with suffering and grief already filling every crevice and notch in his body — doesn’t know what it’s like to spend months alone with the only goal in mind to _stay alive_ , and spending all of those months pondering exactly _why_ he should fight to stay alive.

The best Dean can do for him is speak to him in a way that he knows they’re both comfortable with and hope the message sticks.

He presses one finger into his double’s ass, sliding in so smoothly and slicked with so much lube that it’s a wonder Dean even feels anything at all. But he does, and he makes that clear by the way his eyelids slam shut and his hand slaps Dean gently in the ear trying to find something to hang onto. Dean kneels between the legs locked around his waist and leans forward to drop a kiss against the other Dean’s slack lips, crooking his finger at the same time to stroke against his inner walls.

The pressure around Dean’s middle finger is smooth and hot and so fucking tight he’s half afraid for a mindless moment that he won’t get his finger back, but the other Dean throws his head back into the pillow and sucks in a sharp breath to the tiny bend and thrust of Dean’s fingers inside him, arching his back and pushing his hips down on it in a silent plea for _more_.

“C’mon, babe, I wanna hear you,” he murmurs, heady with arousal already. This is possibly the most turned on he’s been in a couple years, and naturally it would happen when he’s up to his third knuckle fingering the asshole of a guy who is — for all intents and purposes — his clone.

The other Dean squirms beneath him, thighs clenching around Dean’s hips and both his hands carding through his hair and trying to pull Dean closer, trying to get his lips low enough to kiss him because kissing is familiar, kissing is easier than talking and _wanting_. Dean corrects that by using his other hand to pry the fingers out of his hair, taking both his doubles’ hands in one, and presses them back into the mattress above his head with little effort expended.

His double’s eyes flutter open, green and wide and shiny with surprise.

“That’s it,” Dean kisses his way up the side of his neck and over his jaw, one arm stretched above the other Dean’s head, threading their fingers together, and the other pressing two into his ass, scissoring and stroking him gentle, but firm, “Tell me what you want, please, I’ll give it to you,” he says into his mouth, feeling the quick, warm puffs of breath escaping through the restraints the other Dean places on himself.

“Dean,” it’s the first time he’s heard his name come from the other man, the first time _either_ of them have said it, actually, and it ripples the air like a discovery. They shiver simultaneously as the softly uttered syllable slips from one set of plush lips to the other.

“Say it again,” Dean can’t resist asking, “Tell me what you want.”

The other man moans gently as Dean’s fingers brush over the bump of his prostate, “Oh, God, please.”

Dean quirks his mouth into a smile and removes his fingers completely, dearly missing the heat of Dean’s body already, “Way off, pal,” he teases as he fists his own cock, slicking himself up, and lines the head of his dick up against the other Dean’s pulsing, sloppy entrance. He swears he can feel the other man’s heartbeat just from pressing his dick against his rim, “Try again. What do you want?”

“I want you to stop fucking around,” he growls in reply, frustrated and impatient.

Dean stomach lurches at the broken desperation in his tone, and the stubborn unwillingness to just say it, to tell Dean exactly what he wants. But he gets it, and he understands and sympathizes with it and he wishes that they didn’t have to be this way, either of them. He wishes that they could both just _want_ things without feeling guilty, wishes they could both just _be_ without worrying about what others expect of them.

He’s capable of that. He’s knows it. After only a few months of living in this bunker and waking up in the same bed — _his_ bed — weeks in a row, after buying all sorts of stupid house shit like toothbrush holders and hand towels and ice cube trays and a fucking _sieve_ he knows he can do it because this is what he’s always wanted: a home, security, comfort. Some modicum of peace to balance out the continuous ordeals that the universe just keeps flinging at him.

But this Dean won’t give in to that desire, any of them; he’ll throw it all back in Dean’s face and deny himself the things he wants because it’s just what he does, it’s what he’s been conditioned to do all his life and it’s the one thing that keeps his world from crumbling around him.

He doesn’t have to be that here, though. Dean doesn’t _want_ him to be that here.

“It’s okay. I promise you it’s _okay_ to want this.”

“Screw you, asshole.”

“Nuh-uh. Nobody’s getting screwed until they say they want it.”

Forgetting about the fiery anticipation coiling in his own gut for a second, he gets down close to the other Dean’s ear and murmurs against his double’s earlobe, “Maybe I won’t even let you come until you ask for it.”

The other Dean makes a strangled sort of whine and fights the grip Dean has on his wrists, but Dean suspects that it’s more for show than anything. He wriggles under Dean and tries to rub his cock against _something_ to relieve the tension building from the loss of Dean’s stimulating touch, “Why is it so important to you, huh? Why can’t you just—”

“—just what? Take what I need and leave you out to dry?” Dean barks sharply. The ringing edge in his voice surprises them both; the room goes quiet and Dean goes still underneath him and ceases his struggling. But, he figures he should follow that up with something because saying ‘ _never mind, forget I said that_ ’ at this point would just taint whatever comes next, “Sorry, look. I’m just — we’re not —,” he sputters instead, “We’re not the same guy.”

“No shit. You’re a yuppy asshole.”

Dean ignores that, “But we _are_ the same guy, y’know? I know what it’s like inside your head because I’ve _been_ there.”

“You haven’t been where I have,” the other Dean replies coldly, a nerve struck so hard Dean’s ears are ringing, “Don’t you _ever_ say that to me again.”

Dean feels it like a blow to the stomach, but all he can do is look down at his double staring back at him with eyes like chips of stone, and nod in silent admission. He’s right, of course. He has lost Sam. Multiple times, in fact. He’s lost Cas, too. He’s even lost them in similar ways: he’s felt the staggering, suffocating responsibility for pushing Sam away and making him feel so unwanted that he’d sacrifice everything he is for a way out. He’s felt the cloying guilt for clinging to Castiel when Castiel so clearly didn’t need or want him in return.

But things have always righted themselves, in a way. Things are never perfect and the probably never will be, but they’re all alive and they’re all making choices to make things better. This other Dean doesn’t have that luxury and he might never have it.

He releases the other man’s wrists to run the palm of his hand down his chest in apology, “Sorry. I didn’t mean…I didn’t mean it like that.”

They’re quiet for a while: Dean running his hand along his other self’s ribcage and tracing every scar he sees with the tips of his fingers, while the other simply lies beneath him and swallows repeatedly to clear what seems to be one hell of a lump in his throat, judging by the way his eyes have filled and spill quietly over to flood his crow’s feet. Dean averts his eyes and diverts his attention to their cocks, both limp having lost interest in the sad turn of affairs.

He takes them both in his other hand and makes a tunnel with his fist, relishing the wet hiss of air in Dean’s lungs beneath his hand flattened over his sternum, “I can’t…can’t fix everything. Can’t save everyone for you,” Dean says. It only takes a few firm strokes to get them both hard again. He forces down a groan as each of their dicks drool precome into his hand, like they might not be on the same wavelength but their bodies are, but he hears himself groan anyway and realizes — mostly because of the loud sniff attached to the end of it — that it’s coming from the man beneath him, “I just want to give you — us — this one thing. Please. Let me. I just need you to ask, and I’ll do it for you.”

Maybe he’s just too exhausted to argue anymore, or maybe Dean’s begging is having some kind of effect on him, but the other Dean, gasping wetly and pushing himself through the hole of Dean’s slick fist, whispers, “Yes. Fine. Do it. Just fuck me, please,” and then, because he clearly can’t help it, “Happy?”

Dean smirks, “Are you?”

“Get your dick in me and I will be,” he grunts in reply.

“Hm, bossy. I like it,” Dean leans in to catch his double’s mouth to taste that delicious confession, that simple expression of _want_ , for himself. After so much strife and friction between them, he’s all too eager to comply.

They go slowly, at first, because this is a fragile truce and they both know it. It’s not an uncomfortable way to fuck, per se, but Dean stripped away enough of both of their defences that they’re both utterly aware that this isn’t just a regular fuck anymore but an ongoing discussion. He presses his cock into his double’s body and slides himself home inch by miraculous inch until their bodies are slotted together in a perfect, tessellated fit. Soon enough, however, Dean’s rocking into Dean at a steady, bruising pace until their echoing each other’s grunts and moans and breathy _yeah_ s and _fuck_ s and _right there_ s.

There are hands everywhere, in their hair, on their shoulders, on their faces, like they’re playing a game of mirrors and emulating each other, trying to learn each other so that they can each discover what the other’s been through in the five years that separates them. Dean finds loss and grief and suffering under his fingers, in the way the other Dean’s body rises to meet his touch and arches into his thrusts like he’s starving for closeness. There’s so much erosion that there’s more space than substance to the other man and Dean doesn’t know how to repair it, or if it’s something that can even be repaired.

But holes can be filled, and by the way the heated, sticky body beneath him wraps around him and squeezes to meet his insistent rocking, coaxing a slow, deep-reaching orgasm out of him that shakes every atom in his body and spatters the other Dean’s insides, he’ll take this offering from Dean without even knowing what it means.

Dean barely has time to wrap his hand around his double’s dick again before he feels the heat of the other Dean’s ass clench down on his own spent cock, wringing the last few drops from him even as he spurts his own release across his chest and Dean’s fingers, his chest heaving and glistening with sweat and come. Dean’s dick slides out of his ass, oversensitive and cold after being held so tightly in such wild heat. He sits up on his knees between Dean’s legs and examines the come dripping down the back of his hand.

“Don’t you do it, you freak,” the other Dean slurs. He’s watching Dean blearily, but not disinterestedly. His chest is red and blotchy and still rising and falling in the wake of his orgasm.

Dean ignores him and pops his thumb in his mouth, sucking the come right off with an exaggerated ‘ _mmm’_. Come’s not exactly his favourite flavour, but it’s his and since his own load is currently leaking out of his double’s ass and all over his sheets, it’s seems weirdly poetic to take some of it back. And, he gets a thrill from the way Dean tosses his head back in exasperation.

He makes a noise of lazy protest as Dean lays down on his chest, smearing through the mess they made together, both sets of arms curling around each other’s body in a loose hug. He fits his head just below his chin, cheek resting against the knob of his throat, “So?”

“So what?” Dean replies thickly.

“You just got fucked in the ass by me. Again,” he says, “I’m starting to think you like me.”

“Oh, man, better watch out. Soon your head won’t even fit through that big fancy doorway in your _library_.”

Dean chuckles, “You can stay, by the way. If this turns out to be a permanent thing, you can stay here and we can do this all the time,” he babbles, unthinking, but swelling with the joy of his first good lay in a couple years, “I really want to see the look on Kevin’s face when he meets you — you’ll like him a lot. He’s kind of like a mini-Sam, except he thinks I’m a lame-ass old man because I don’t know what a reddit is.”

The other Dean is quiet and strokes his shoulder thoughtfully, definitely thinking the same things Dean is — that all of this is probably not going to be the case, that whatever magic that zapped him here in the first place will probably zap him back and this’ll all just be some awful lesson to reassert how badly this Dean fucked up his life. Dean sighs heavily and feels his other self sigh with him.

He asks, more quietly this time, “Would you stay? If you could, I mean. You’d have to leave everybody — Risa and Chuck and Cas — but would you do it?” _for you_ he almost adds, but bites down on the words at the last second.

“I couldn’t leave them—”

Dean strains his neck to meet Dean’s eyes and says far more fervently than he’d intended, “Screw ‘could’. Tell me if you _would_. Tell me what you _want_ to do, man. You’re allowed, you know. Just let yourself, this one time.”

He stops himself before ‘ _Please_ , _just say yes’,_ but It hangs in the air like an accusation, a judgement, and a sentencing all in one.

The other Dean pulls his lips over his teeth and says nothing, does nothing but tighten his arms around Dean and dip his forehead so Dean’s mouth is pressed to his brow.


End file.
